


Sugar

by c5l5o5v5e5r5



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Loneliness, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:30:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c5l5o5v5e5r5/pseuds/c5l5o5v5e5r5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After "the fall" John is alone at two-two-one-b where everything still reminds him of Sherlock. Those memories are addicting as well as toxic, and he knows he needs to escape, but has no idea how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar

He forgot not to buy sugar again.

  
‘You don’t use sugar,’ John thought as he placed the fourth bag of it in the cupboard. It was a habit, which proved hard to break and despite his best efforts he still brought a bag of sugar home with him every other month. Sherlock was the one who used sugar. Usually a teaspoon, sometimes two if he felt like it.

  
He cringed as he pulled open the fridge door, another custom he forgot to abandon. He knew there were no more body parts to be expected, no more toes next to his yogurt or livers in the crisper, and yet his face muscles contorted involuntarily nonetheless. He turned around and placed the remaining shopping on the table that was now devoid of toxic chemicals and curious experiments in progress. He could never admit it out loud, but their absence made his heart ache somehow and the feeling of betrayal washed over him every time he looked at that clean and empty table.

  
Emptiness was taking over the flat with a rapid pace. Mrs. Hudson cleaned it up a bit when he couldn’t bring himself to, and then Mycroft sent some people over to collect the violin, books, and anything else he deemed valuable. But there were still little traces of Sherlock scattered around, like the graffiti and bullet holes on the wall, the bison skull with the earphones still on it, or the _Cluedo_ board he pierced through with a knife. Even the empty spaces of where his things used to be reminded John of the moments they shared here and of the life they had together.

  
Everything reminded John of Sherlock. The particular stuffy smell that arose every time he sat on the sofa brought back memories of Sherlock lounging there with nicotine patches over his forearms in the process of solving a challenging case. The creak of the stairs made him picture Sherlock running down them hastily, chasing an impossible idea that came to him naturally. Even the way the sunshine seeped through the windows in the morning inspired thoughts of Sherlock gently strumming his violin after a night of constant deductions. With every breath he took at two-two-one-b he inhaled the remains of Sherlock Holmes and he was suffocating.

  
John knew he had to move out, and soon, but he was terrified that he would fall apart away from the flat. If those memories of Sherlock were his oxygen, his air, no matter how toxic, then how could he manage without them? But it wasn’t fair to Mrs. Hudson, who refused rent payments since “the fall” on the grounds that John barely worked and had hardly any money to spare. Mycroft hinted at paying her, of course, but the mere idea was so obviously a dreadful blow to John’s ego he never dared to mention it again. Mike suggested acquiring another flat mate, which resulted in John producing the coldest glare he could possibly manage. The thought of someone else occupying Sherlock’s space and sleeping in Sherlock’s bed made icy chills trickle down his spine.

  
He went into Sherlock’s bedroom rarely. It was completely barren now, stripped of all the identity it used to posses. Whenever he visited it the memories got so vivid he felt like drowning and there was no escape, nothing to do other than curl up on the floor in the doorway crushed with desperation. And yet there was this fickle moment of hope that grew on him somewhere between walking down the hallway and reaching for the doorknob. He stood there now with his fist around the cold metal as his heart pounded in his chest and his gut twisted mercilessly. It was a feeling of anticipation, of excitement, of panic, and of terror. He could picture him in such detail it seemed almost real.

  
He would be there, in that awfully empty room languidly stretched on the bare mattress with his long fingers steepled under his chin. He would look impeccable, as always, in a sharp suit and still wearing that mysterious coat of his. He would slowly raise his head, with the dark curls bouncing around, and look at John with an eyebrow raised and a glimmer in those fantastically unique eyes… It made him anxious, the whole idea of it, no matter how insane and improbable.

  
The idea that he would turn the knob, open the door, and Sherlock would just be _right there_ …

  
“Hello, John.”


End file.
